


hold your breath (and count the days)

by aesalon (firetan)



Series: 7KPP Event Collections [3]
Category: Seven Kingdoms: The Princess Problem (Visual Novel)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon Universe, Extended Demo Content, Friendship, Gen, Nonbinary Character, Pre-Relationship, Prompt Fill, Shippy Gen, Shorts, Suicidal Thoughts, Tagging characters who have appeared in multiple chapters, Tags May Change, content warnings in the chapter notes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:08:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 19,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23292220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firetan/pseuds/aesalon
Summary: For the 7KPP Daily Prompt Fill run by fyeah7kpp on tumblr!(Title from Beautiful, from the Heathers musical).
Relationships: Corval Lady/Lyon, Hise Pirate & Hamin, Hise Pirate/Jasper
Series: 7KPP Event Collections [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/944535
Comments: 39
Kudos: 3





	1. Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 1: Night.
> 
> ft. Irina of Hise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **No content warnings for this chapter.**

There is something about being awake after dark that has always felt soothing to Irina. Perhaps it's the thought of solitude, of everyone around sleeping the night away and leaving the whole world to be just hers for a little while. Or maybe it's just that she prefers it to the things that come in dreams.

Night is not often peaceful in Hise proper. Sailors work round the clock in shifts, and even on the islands there are parties to be had at any time of day. But in Ravenskeep, darkness means quiet, and Irina soon finds that it is much the same on the Isle. They care so much more for what is 'proper' and 'right', just like her father, so everyone is encouraged to be tucked away and soft while the night is yet young. The castle is so still, once the sky has darkened and the stars come out. Its empty hallways whisper to her.

Irina knows Jasper will probably be angry with her, but -- well, it's not as though there's anything he can do to help her sleep, and the walls of this building trap her just like her father's manor back in Hise. She needs to get out.

It would be a lie to say that everyone is asleep when she steps quietly into the hall, feet tucked into the old dance slippers she can't properly dance in any longer and nightshirt brushing against her knees. Just like any noble house, or any proper vessel, there will doubtlessly be some staff awake. Working in shifts, just like they'd all done on the Amor Almar when she sailed with her mother. (When she sailed alone). But they are busy with their work, and the guess halls are void of activity. It feels like they've been waiting for her.

Once upon a time, Irina would have been able to simply switch from one eye to the other and navigate the darkness without trouble. Now, candlelight reflects in her blind eye as she wanders through the halls, silent as a ghost. Buildings at night don't quite feel the same as ships.

She ducks out onto a balcony, where the night air is cool and crisp, and allows herself to breathe.

Just seven weeks. Not quite two months. She can-- Irina can do that. She can wait that long - she's waited this long already, she can wait a little longer.

She can, can't she?

The night doesn't answer, but then she never did expect it to.

There's something awfully freeing about that, too.


	2. Soar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 2: Soar.
> 
> ft. Irina of Hise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **No content warnings for this chapter.**

"Do you ever think about just... running away?"

From where he's busily retying the rigging on one of the Isle's ships, Hamin turns and cocks his head like a confused hound. "What, from here?"

Irina shrugs, as nonchalant as she can manage. "From everything, I suppose."

He whistles. "Hoo, now that's a loaded question if I ever heard one, Glitter. Seems like it'd be pretty hard to run away from Hise, though, don'tcha think?" The rope is knotted and un-knotted in his hands, absent and routine. "I mean, we take 'em all, so it's not really like you'd be declared 'not ours anymore' even if you left."

"You're not wrong." When she stretches, she can feel the joints along her spine popping. Skies, how long has it been since she's done anything interesting? "But even in Hise, there are still families like yours and mine."

Hamin is nodding before she can continue. "Rules and expectations, I get that." His eyes take on a pensive cast. "I guess I've never really minded it too much. All said and done, I'm pretty happy where I am."

Though the salty breeze off the sea is warm, Irina can't quite suppress a chill. What must it be like, she wonders, to feel such satisfaction with one's state of existence? To be at peace with the way things are?

She shakes her head. "Of course you would be. All the lords and ladies swoon for a dashing pirate with no shirt on."

"My, my, Glitter, are you including yourself in that number?"

"Absolutely not." Irina rolls her eyes and rolls up her sleeves, toeing out of her shoes with a huff. "I prefer my men wrapped up in enough layers that I can no longer tell whether they are human, animal, or a particularly dense shrub. Now will you please have mercy on that poor knot, and let me take care of the topsails?"

Hamin throws back his head with a laugh, the sound full and delighted. "All yours! Now, what would that butler of yours think if he heard such words?"

"He'd best pray for the safety of whoever told them to him!" She retorts, swinging herself into the rigging barefoot and barehanded. The rope is rough beneath her palms in a familiar manner, scratching at old callouses that a half-decade of Ladyship nearly erased. But her fingers remember what her mind may not, and there is something about swaying from the top of the mast that almost manages to turn back time itself.

She could fly away, from here. She could soar out, out beyond the stifling rhythms and structures of nobility and order and society. Out to where everything beating beneath her breastbone could be set free.

Up, up, and away.

There is a glint of silver in the corner of her vision, and Irina looks back at the place where the wooden dock turns to stone once more. A solemn figure, black and white and silver, waits there. Patient, quiet.

Irina forces herself to breath in, deep and full. Out, slow and steady. Returns to the rigging, adjusting lengths and retying loosened knots.

Not yet. Not yet.


	3. Breathe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 3: Breathe.
> 
> ft. Kite of Corval.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **No content warnings for this chapter.**

They don't want to be here.

Ultimately, all said and done, they don't want to be here and never really did. If it were only them, perhaps, they wouldn't mind letting things remain as they are and have always been. But Mom deserves better. She deserves a way to escape the Courts, deserves to have a way out to where she can be free and happy. And after all she's done and sacrificed for them, there's not much Kite won't do to return that kindness.

So here they are. Sitting in a rather uncomfortable chair - so unlike the low settees and cushions in the courts - with Lady Avalie on one side and one of the uptight young men from Arland on the other. One by one, the delegates stand on stage and introduce themselves to the gathering. Perhaps some of them are being truly honest - Princess Penelope certainly seems guileless enough to do so, while Duke Lyon simply doesn't seem to care enough to lie - but Kite's nowhere near foolish enough to believe what the majority of the delegates say.

This is political, after all. None of them have forgotten that.

The stone in their hands is carved with a lovely filigree '42', looking for all the world like the sort of setting accessory they might have made for a party in Corval. If they were planning on returning to Corval in any way, perhaps they'd keep the idea in mind for a future event.

But no. Kite watches Lady Avalie take her turn on the stage, and surreptitiously wipes the nervous sweat off their palms. They can't go back, after this. All of the campaigning and struggling to get here, all of the smiling and laughing and lying - it's to find a new home, a place where they can take Mom far, far away from the courts. Give her a place to live that will be safe, will be happy.

Kite can be what people want them to be. It's what they've done their whole life, it seems. There aren't many ways to survive in the Courts, and Kite has never managed to foster the disposition for sabotage and savagery. But if you present yourself as the sort of person others want - not dangerous, not bright, useful enough to keep alive and useless enough to not be worth watching too closely - you might be able to get by without staining your hands. Kite's seen others do it by using their sexuality, or their comedy - but Kite's not particularly funny on-the-spot, and they've never quite figured out how to use their body like that.

They keep their eyes open, their mouth shut, and create lovely things that wealthy courtiers will like so nobody decides to dispose of them. Act like more of a child than they've ever been, because children are not a threat unless there is lineage and inheritance concerned, and Kite has neither. Play pretend, so nobody ever truly knows you.

Number 41 ascends the stage, nervous and shaky, and Kite's not sure they're ready for this. The courts are one thing, where they know the expectations and the rules.

Here on the Isle, things are different, and that's not necessarily good.

Who are they supposed to be, here? The prodigious creator, the meticulous planner with an eye for colors and entertainment? The mother's precious child, young and innocent and full of naïve delight for the wonders of the world? The Court Lady, feelings held close to their chest and only flashed teasingly at the young men passing by?

Perhaps it would be better to ask who 'Lady Esmeralda' is supposed to be. After all, she's never been the same as Kite, not really. Lady Esmeralda belongs to the Courts. Kite belongs...

Kite belongs...

Number 41 sits down. It's their turn. The room feels numb and muffled as they step onto the stage, their footsteps too loud, their lungs too heavy. Everyone is watching, bored and impatient, ready to be finished. Does it even matter who they are, if nobody here cares? The very air stifles them.

In the back of the room, Jasper nods. Near imperceptible, dignified and clear.

And in the chairs, amidst the nameless and truthless faces - Princess Penelope beams, cheeks still flushed and rosy from her own introduction. Beside her, her brother inclines his head, calm and approving. Lord Clarmont, seated near the back, the corners of his eyes crinkling with an encouraging smile. Though there are many who remain uncaring, maybe - maybe even a few of these people here want to know them. Maybe even the real them.

At the edge of a row, Duke Lyon pauses his desperate glances towards the door to look up and meet their eyes. Though his expression doesn't truly change, something in it softens into the barest hint of a smile.

They breathe. Deep, in, hold.

"Hello. I am Kite of Corval."


	4. Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 4: Shadow.
> 
> ft. Irina of Hise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **No content warnings for this chapter.**

"It's odd to see you without that butler of yours lurking somewhere, Glitter." Hamin offers Irina a rakish grin, which she pointedly ignores. "How'd you convince him to leave you alone with such rogues as we?"

She rolls her eyes, spinning the small wooden discus on a finger before throwing it out across the field. "Oh, I'm sure he's nearby. I think at this point he knows I'm not interested in any of you like that, and you've proven yourselves capable of not taking advantage of me, so it's all well and even."

From his spot on the grass, Zarad snickers - though whether it's at Irina's words, or Hamin's flamboyant failure to catch the discus, is rather unclear. "My, my, so trusting."

"What, you think he's wrong?"

The snickers turn into outright laughter. "Oh, most certainly not - even I am aware of the difference between a lady who has lost interest, and one who simply enjoys the chase. Of course, one might suspect otherwise of our handsome pirate prince-" Movements languid, Zarad ducks under the discus that's been thrown rather sharply in his direction, plucking it out of the air with one hand and tossing it towards Irina in turn.

Hamin jogs back towards the group, looking quite put-upon. "Hey, I'd never disrespect Glitter like that! Or anyone else, for that matter!" He eyes Irina, camaraderie shadowed just a touch by what might be a memory.

He is from Hise as well, after all. It's not unlikely that he might have heard the rumors, bitter or awed, that tossed between beer kegs and bar stools. Or perhaps he saw her handiwork, even - she never really paid much attention to how things went after she took care of her business with the issue, after all. (The storms in her head had been quite loud enough, even without it).

Here and now, Irina snorts gracelessly (she's always been quite unsuited for ladyship). "Frankly, after getting to know Lady Avalie, neither of you appear even remotely frightening to me."

The discus flies past Zarad's distracted face as he glances around surreptitiously. "I would be wary of saying such things about the good lady - you never know what ears the bushes may be growing, Lady Irina."

"Oh, boo. I'm pretty sure she'd take it as a compliment."

"Where'd the- aw, rats!" Coming up to join them, Hamin's lips tug into a frown as he looks up into the foliage bordering the field. "Discus's gotten stuck up there." He glances between the three of them, considering. "Glitter, you mind getting it down?"

Irina blinks. "Wha- why me?"

Gold glints in the sun as he tilts his head aside, the beads and jewels strung throughout his hair catching the light. "Well, Prince Zarad here certainly can't with all those- you know, shawls and drapery- and you're much smaller than I am! Plus, you're good with rigging, right? Shouldn't be too different."

He'd- "How'd you know I'm good with rigging?"

The 'pirate prince' laughs. "Beside the fact that I've seen you sail? Come on, it's not like anyone in Hise doesn't know what sorta sailor Blackthorn's daughter is. You do realize any pirate worth their salt's wanted a chance at being on your ship?"

Oh. Huh. Irina's just gonna... file that away to think about later. Much later. Eventually.

In the meanwhile, she offers Hamin a raised eyebrow before making her way over to the treeline. The discus, thankfully, has caught about partway up the tree, where there are still plenty of branches able to bear a small woman's weight. Bark isn't too different a sensation from rope, so Irina swings herself up the first few limbs smoothly.

The little whispery voice in the back of her head reminds her that maybe if she climbed up high enough... maybe if she climbed all the way to the top, and jumped. That could be something.

Now isn't the time, though. There are two friends waiting for her to come back so they can continue their game, and behave like the kids none of them quite managed to be. She's not in this tree to die, she's here to retrieve a discus and nothing more.

She's on her way back down with the wooden disc gripped in her teeth when a flash of silver beneath the leaves catches her eye. Barely resisting the urge to cackle, Irina swings herself down the last few branches and vaults onto the soft earth, shifting the discus to one hand as she strolls around the trunk to greet the man standing beside it.

"Why am I not surprised to find you here?"

Jasper doesn't startle, and she hadn't expected him to - the man is obscenely observant, and climbing trees is hardly a quiet activity. "While it would be unwise to leave you to such activities unsupervised, I felt that it would be... prudent to maintain a margin of distance." He glances down to meet her eyes, expression amused. "You three seem to be enjoying yourselves, my Lady."

Irina huffs. "Honestly, Jasper, you can call me by name. It'll be an awful chore trying to break everyone of the habit once this is over."

He hums noncommittally, looking back out at the field. "While it is a rather unorthodox activity for Summit delegates, I must admit that it does have a somewhat charming appeal."

"You could join us, if you'd like."

When his gaze turns to her, lilac and momentarily surprised, Irina realizes what she's said and falters before forging on. "I mean it. I know everyone's always commenting on how you lurk around, but I do enjoy your company. You don't have to hang back here."

A rare smile tugs at his cheeks. "As it happens, I rather enjoy the woods here." He pauses, thoughtful. "I am not often able to spend time in these places during the Summit, so this is quite pleasant."

"Oh, well." Really, what else can she say to that? "I'm- I'm glad, then."

One hand hovers, cautious, before reaching out to gently nudge her shoulder. "You should rejoin your companions. It would be imprudent to keep them waiting, my- Lady Irina."

She stifles a laugh and nods, running back out onto the field to join the princes and perhaps throwing the discus a touch more vengefully than necessary in Zarad's direction. While he catches it with far too much ease, Hamin jogs up to meet her with a grin.

"Glitter, you alright? You took longer than I expected - did you get stuck? I promise I won't laugh. Well, perhaps I will. But you know I won't judge you!"

Irina sighs, the smile pulling at her cheeks without the slightest effort. How strange it is, to have found people she can smile with - here, of all places. Hamin's rakish humor could outshine the sun, and Zarad makes his way over to join them with a long-suffering amusement.

"I'm fine - I was just talking to my shadow."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I'm bad at writing formal speech and since this is supposed to be casual, everyone is gonna be a little dorkier than usual. /shrug


	5. Solid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 5: Solid.
> 
> ft. Kite of Corval.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **No content warnings for this chapter.**

"If you were a state of matter, you'd be a solid."

Glancing up from his current book on the religious philosophies of the ancient Skaldic tribespeople, Lyon levels them with a ponderous look. "Putting aside that humans are technically made up of solids, liquids, and gases as well - in what way would I be a solid as opposed to the others?"

Kite hums, drumming their fingers on the library table. "Well, you're quite straightforward, for one. And you keep your form regardless of the situation you're in - I mean, here or in Jiyel, you're still found amongst the books, don't you agree?"

He nods slowly, setting the text in his hands aside with a finger marking the pages. "You are not... incorrect, in your assessment of my character. But why does that make me solid rather than, let's say, a gas?"

"Well, isn't that a trait of solid matter?" Idly, they twirl a curl around and around, thinking aloud. "That it will maintain its state of being unless significant forces pressure it to change? Not to mention, you're a very moral person."

"I- thank you?"

That earns him a goofy grin before Kite continues on. "But see- your morals are also very uncompromising, you know? You're not the sort to bend them for situations or circumstances, like Prince Hamin and Prince Zarad are." They pause for a moment, considering. "And people have to be quite determined in order to get you to open up - rather like how all solids will have a melting point, but you've got to turn the heat a fair ways up first?"

Lyon blinks slowly, leaning back to stare at them thoughtfully. "I see. And what would you consider yourself to be?"

"Oh, I'm liquid." Kite laughs, careful to maintain their low volume with respect to the surroundings. "I am capable of changing my shape to a degree, but always in response to the situation I find myself placed in. It's difficult to survive the Courts without maintaining that sort of behavior."

He makes a soft noise. "I suppose you could put it that way."

"You don't agree?"

It takes a few moments for Lyon to respond. "I agree with your choice of calling yourself liquid, but I believe you are selling yourself short. You are a very... free-spirited individual, Kite, but you still have connections to people and places and ideals. You are able to care about things without being trapped by those values."

Oh.

"It is a trait I have recently found myself envying." He glances back down at his books. "As I find myself for the first time wanting to grow as a person, rather than an intellectual, it has been a struggle to learn new methods of interaction and perception. It has been easy for me to remain within the habits I have always had, until now." Looking back up, his eyes meet theirs, calm and open. "You may say that you maintain your changing behavior because of the Courts, but to me it seems more like... like you are the sort of person well-disposed to growth."

Kite laughs. "You have certainly learned how to flatter, Lyon."

"I- what? No, I'm being honest here."

They half-sigh, leaning their forearms on the table and cushioning one cheek in their hand. "I know. It's a lovely thing, that."

Returning to his book, Lyon raises a slim brow. "My complimenting you?"

"No, your honesty."


	6. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 6: Reunion.
> 
> ft. Irina Kolyuchka.
> 
> _Double-Shot of Love AU._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Incredibly minor mention of firearms/police.**

Some days, Irina thinks stepping into Blackwater Tattoo has to have been the worst decision of her life. Days when she feels trapped by all of the codes and morals of being a good, upstanding citizen, with a job and friends and - god, _taxes_.

Most of the time, though, she figures it set everything along a pretty good path, all things considered. She's got a lovely arm sleeve instead of poorly healed burns, an apartment and a roommate and a childhood friend come back all in one tidy package, employment she can actually report to people without being tossed to the cops. Some things haven't changed, of course - legal or not, there's no way she'll go anywhere without a handgun or knife on hand, and it's not like the nightmares go away - but life is really looking up. There's even a cute barista at the coffee shop across the street, who reacts in the best ways to compliments, and a pretty young woman at the florist's down the block with an adorable laugh.

(Irina's pretty sure those guys working at the men's boutique are part of some local mafia, which is a crying shame because they're both ridiculously hot. She's sworn off organized crime, but goddamn do they make those suits look good, and they're awfully nice for mobsters.)

And now, apparently, she's... learning how to play the guitar.

"You have some issues with your left hand, right?" Neema explains, sitting in the tiny living room of their shared apartment with a weird metal tool (a "capo") in one hand, "So I figure learning to play might help that a bit. Doing chords'll help improve your grip strength and mobility, all in one package."

Irina looks suspiciously at the guitar that's been placed in her lap. "But I can use my right hand just fine. Why do I need to fix this one?"

Neema groans. "Irie, honey, what am I going to do with you?"

"Force me to live in your apartment and butcher my paintings?"

"Hey, rude." The metal tool is placed back on the table as Neema crosses her arms. "I don't butcher them, you just make them way too detailed! Tattoos are gonna be tattoos, they're not some sort of gallery art."

Irina stabs the air in front of her with a guitar pick. So much less effective than a good old fashioned knife. "Just you wait - once I'm able to do them myself, it's over for you fuckers."

"Even more reason to work on your hand! Can't tat if you don't have the steadiest grip north of the south pole - tattoo artists and surgeons, all in the same boat."

"I feel like I should be worried about your standards for surgeons, Neems."

Her roommate rolls her eyes, leaning forward and pulling Irina's stiff left hand into what looks like some sort of chord position, pressing fingers against the strings. "Look, just humor me, okay? We can even just learn some songs you like. There's that one- the Indigo Girls one, Reunion? I've heard you listening to it."

"I like their rockier stuff. The new stuff takes getting used to."

Neema nods, and Irina really can't tell whether she's agreeing or just slipping into teacher mode. "Well, that one starts off with a G chord - kind of tricky, but it's really common so you'd be using it sooner or later. Here, you want your first finger on the top string - yeah, like that. And then your middle finger on the second- hold on," She leans over to adjust Irina's hand again into an uncomfortable position, "There, next fret over. Give the strings a strum."

The entire thing makes Irina a little nervous - after all, she's never really been the musical sort. But Neema's being pretty nice about it, and her hand hurts but it hasn't started spasming yet, so she pulls the pick across the front of the instrument and is rewarded with a rich sound, louder than expected.

Neema grins. "There you go! Other great thing about guitar - once you can do chords, you can play pretty much any song you want. Fingerstyling can help you get fancy, and having a sense of rhythm is good too, but - master chords, and you've got the biggest step done."

"Assuming I keep doing this," Irina lets go of the guitar, shaking out her left hand and wincing, "How long would that take?"

"Don't know! It's different for everyone." Leaving the room for a moment, Neema returns with her own guitar in hand, sliding it into position with practiced ease. "Only way to find out is to try. I'll show you the next few chords, and then you try to copy them, 'kay?"

Well. Irina sighs, curling her fingers back around the neck and forcing her shoulders to relax.

There are far worse reunions she could've had.

This is pretty nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahahaha... I am so late. Gonna start catching up, though.
> 
> This chapter is from one of a million AUs I've developed with quilleth and DoctorOswald - this one is from what we affectionately named 'Double-Shot of Love', which combines coffee shop AU with florists, a tattoo parlor, and a men's clothing boutique that is definitely not a front for a spy agency (so yes, we accidentally did make a Kingsman AU, but that isn't a huge part of it yet). 
> 
> Neema is Doc's Hise MC! She's awesome!


	7. Chill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 7: Chill.
> 
> ft. Kite Aida.
> 
> _Double-Shot of Love AU._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sickness/quarantine mention, not related to COVID.**

"Thanks for letting me stay with you guys!"

Clara barely looks at the mess of pink hair tangled over her roommate's pillows, busily tapping her fingers across the screen of her phone. "Yeah, sure thing. Is your mom really okay with this, though? I mean, you always talk about getting her groceries and stuff..."

Poking their head out to blow their nose with a tissue from the box beside the bed, Kite manages a watery smile. "It's fine! She totally gets it, don't worry! Zarad agreed to help her with stuff if anything comes up, and I'll totally pay you back at work later!"

"Speaking of which, I gotta go. I'll pick up some Nyquil on my way back, okay?"

"Thanks, Clara!"

The short woman disappears down the hall, followed by the distinct sound of the apartment door opening and closing. Footsteps echo as Lyon enters from the living room, book in hand, and pulls the desk chair over to the bedside. He levels a thoughtful look in Kite's direction, and they shrink back under the covers.

"What did you actually tell her?"

Kite's voice is small, even through the congestion. "I said something came up with work, and I had to travel for a bit. She was asleep when I stopped home for clothes, so... is it bad, that I lied?"

"I personally believe you shouldn't have. But I understand why." Lyon sighs, leaning forward to rest a cool hand against their forehead. They shift and turn towards the touch. "And it's an intelligent response, quarantining yourself away from home. While this is likely just a seasonal cold..."

"I didn't want her to get sick." Curling their fingers around the blanket, Kite looks up at their friend. "But are you sure it's okay like this? I didn't want to steal your bed - I really would be fine with the couch, it's not that bad. It's already enough that you and Clara are letting me stay until I get better, I don't want to steal away your room and all that too."

Lyon purses his lips. "Comfort will help lower psychological and physiological stress symptoms that could interfere with recovery. And I don't want-"

A pale flush spreads across his cheeks as he cuts himself off, eyes darting to Kite's and away again. His hand starts to pull away from their forehead, and they grab it on instinct, wrapping their fingers around his. It's cool.

"Want what?"

He shakes his head, expression stiff. "No, it's nothing. Don't- don't worry about it." The facade of composure cracks, just a little, and something soft peeks through as he looks down at Kite. Their head and hand are the only parts visible, everything else curled into a ball beneath his plain blankets, bright pink curls standing out against the soft greys and navy blues.

Even though it's not their bed at home, it does feel comfortable, and safe. It smells like Lyon, crisp herbal scents and the aroma of cut leaves that he brings home from work. If they weren't already flushed with fever, Kite would blush at the thoughts.

As it is, he squeezes their hand gently before returning to his book, and a chill trickles down their spine that has nothing to do with sickness.

It feels like just a little bit of hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More from the Double-Shot of Love!
> 
> Clara is also Doc's, from Corval originally. In this AU, she and Lyon are roommates because they're both nerds who can tolerate each other and clutter up the apartment with books. Kite and Clara are co-workers at the coffee shop (Cupid's), and Lyon works at the floristry. 
> 
> Maybe I'll add more from this AU in later prompts... Maybe we'll see the Suits at some point :3


	8. Boredom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 8: Boredom.
> 
> ft. Irina of Hise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **No content warnings for this chapter.**

Now, in all fairness, it isn't as though Irina hasn't been bored before. Among the many quandaries of melancholia was, of course, the ever-present disinterest in most past passions and interests that plagued her during her years living off the water in Ravenskeep. She is almost intimately familiar with an absence of care, an absence of stimulation, and spent more days than healthy in its company.

Yet, even with such practice and skill in the art of disinterest... skies, sometimes the Summit is so infuriatingly _boring!_

Irina groans aloud, setting her pen aside and trying futilely to rub the blurring words out of her eyes. "Great crested waves, how many more of these wretched things do I have to write?" She offers Jasper a half-hearted scowl, more frustrated with the circumstances than her butler. "Not that I mind letters, but- my goodness, why must they all be so- so long and tedious? It's like writing a treatise on economics, for all it's nearly as dry!"

"It is a skill befitting nobility, to write with grace and eloquence." One of his eyebrows quirks upward ever-so-slightly. "Though I will admit, most of it is done more for show than substance."

Just like everything else about high society, Irina supposes. She grits her teeth, refocusing on the (polite, tidy, elegantly-scripted) letter and blocking the thoughts of sun and sea and _outside_ from her mind. "One of these days, all of nobility shall crumble and collapse, and it will be solely the fault of these pointless missives and meanderings. Skies, if there's something to say, why in the world can people not simply say it and be done?"

Jasper hums, leaning over her shoulder to refill her teacup. His movements are precise and clear, and Irina can feel the brush of his arm against her shoulder like the brand of a burning coal. It's difficult to suppress her shiver at the proximity.

Pulling back, he makes a thoughtful face. "There is rather a long history, I've found, of nobility engaging in a 'second language' of sorts, wherein the things that are said act as a masquerade for subtextual meanings that are not so clearly stated."

Irina grimaces. "Well, yes, I am aware of that. Did you know, some of the ladies in Hise have created a booklet of acceptable ways to insult noblemen who don't take 'no' for an answer?"

"I... don't believe I do, no." Even without looking, she can tell he's eyeing her. "It sounds intriguing."

"I've probably got a copy somewhere in my luggage, you're free to peruse it if you'd like." After all, her sachets and herbs are stored very safely away. And even if he were to find them, Jasper of all people would know why they're not a danger. "That aside, I always found it rather ridiculous."

"How so?"

Irina scowls fiercely at the page before her, focusing hard on the painful curves of the letters. "Never saying what you truly think or feel, always painting things up behind so many layers of fake sweetness. I know why we must partake in such things, and yet-" She bites her lip, risking a glance up at Jasper.

He's watching her, expression soft and touched by something she daren't place a name to.

She looks away. "I suppose I wish it were possible to live in a world where such things weren't needed. Where we could simply speak plain, and with honesty - where words meant to hurt didn't hide behind such fearful veils, and words of love could be made plain and open."

"Words of love?"

Jasper looks away, then - she can feel it. Irina forces herself to breathe, in and out, steadying. Slides another letter, written earlier and with the ink already dried into beautiful silver calligraphy, across the desk until it meets the tea-tray. She holds her gaze steady on her current task, and away from Jasper as he carefully lifts the letter and unfolds it.

To her credit, there is no tremor in her voice. "You know what I mean."

In her periphery, she sees the paper disappear somewhere in the folds of her butler's suit. Jasper sighs, soft and nigh-imperceptible, and Irina takes a sip of her tea. Outside the window, the sun taunts her, whispering of freedom.

Whispering of a life of joys and passions, a world where no words must hide unsaid meanings and where perhaps she might be happy once more.

Ink dries on the page before her. Boredom, melancholia, all the same in the end.

How long until it will end?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more for today! I'm really hoping to catch up eventually.
> 
> Also I think I can safely tag Irie & Jasper now. I wanted to wait until there was a chapter that really focused on them together, and... I guess that's happened. Still mostly pre-relationship, though. It's always interesting for me, trying to puzzle through how their romance forms. Irina is such a sort of contrary character, it's always a wonderful challenge to write her.


	9. Flowing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 9: Flowing.
> 
> ft. Irina of Hise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **No content warnings for this chapter.**

"Hamin, what opinion have you of dance?"

The prince of pirates blinks, cat-like, and learns forward to examine Irina's face with a fierce concentration. "... Who are you, and what have you done with Glitter? Perish the day that she should ask me such strange questions!" He holds a dramatic hand to his brow. "No, you must be an imposter, stolen away my treasure and replaced her with a counterfeit! Alas, such a sorrowful fate, how shall I move on--"

Irina punches him in the shoulder, desperately trying not to laugh (skies, some of these corsets are laced so tight, she might break the seams or her ribs if she were to indulge in such things). "Oh, stuff a sock in it, I'm trying to ask a serious question!"

"My wounded pride! My wounded shoulder!" Snickering, he leans back and crosses his arms. "And from where does this serious question come? I certainly hope you're not about to ask me for lessons."

"As if." She makes a face, hiking her skirts up so she can climb onto the railings of the gazebo. Hamin offers a hand up, and is used as an armrest for his troubles. "I'm quite certain I have more skill in dance than you, oh Prince." Sighing, she leans against one of the pillars. The stone is cool against her back and chills the place above her neckline where the skin of her back is bared.

Hamin rests his arms on the railing. "Then what is it?"

Irina shrugs. "I suppose I'm just curious, is all. I feel as though I have rather strange notions of dance, as a sailor and lady rolled together, and wonder if anyone else shares such perceptions."

"I see. And what perceptions are those, then?"

"Somewhat-" She tries to describe the feeling with her hands, dropping them back to her sides when Hamin's face only contorts in confusion. "-well, it's always felt more like a part of the sea than a part of the land. Does that make sense? It's- the feeling of dancing, it's always flowing like tides and waves, up and down and in motion." A grimace. "I was the bane of those poor instructors my father hired - all those fancy posh-and-proper dances always felt so stiff, not at all like how they were supposed to be."

Wind teases through Hamin's hair, and he nods thoughtfully. "I suppose I understand that feeling, though I've never quite had to suffer the instruction you and Cordie've been subjected to."

"I'm sure Princess Cordelia enjoyed her dance lessons much more than I ever did." Irina responds with a reluctant grin.

Hamin rolls his eyes. "Oh, for sure - when we were both wee scamps, she'd drag me into the ballroom whenever I came to visit, insisted on having me help her practice. Nightmares, I tell you! That woman is a menace on the dance floor."

A snort escapes Irina, and she nods. "Whereas more than one of my tutors asked to be dismissed, citing my 'incurable hedonistic tendencies' as an insurmountable impediment to proper education and ladyship." Nobility was ill-adapted to the mannerisms of even the most learned pirates, after all. She'd learnt to walk and dance on the deck of a ship, to music played by friends and family with no rhyme or reason beyond the simple joy of it all. A far cry from the regulated, ruled waltzes and pavanes her tutors had tried to impress upon her.

"And such a shame, those hedonistic tendencies must be! Such a poor way of life, surely!"

"Oh, knock it off, won't you?"

"How your ladies and maids must have cried, oh the shame-"

"Alright, alright, I get it!"

"Guh, yowch! Pointy, pointy shoes, Glitter!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow, Hamin & Irina's friendship has become a recurring aspect of these prompt fills...
> 
> Let's just say that I am a sucker for sort-of childhood friends (or at least, childhood associates) and camaraderie, and also Hamin is enough of a bastard that he brings out Irina's inner bastard better than anyone else.


	10. Laugh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 10: Laugh.
> 
> ft. Kite of Corval.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **No content warnings for this chapter.**

In the fifth week of the Summit, he sees them laugh for the first time, and realizes that all of the laughter they've shown until this point has been solely a performance. Were it someone else and something else, perhaps he would be disappointed, disillusioned. Insincerity is insincerity, after all, and he sees little point in it.

But... this is Kite. This is his- he dares not put it into words, not yet. Words denote clarity, designate importance, and even two weeks after their announcement at the Matchmaker's Banquet, Lyon is afraid to put what he and Kite have into such definitive qualifications. What they are, what this feeling is, he wants to hold it safe and hidden until this trial is over and they can- can look towards a new type of future. One without solitude and loneliness.

In the fifth week of the Summit, Lyon sees them laugh for the first time.

Kite has laughed before - regularly, boisterous and loud and as extroverted as the worst of the Hisean pirates. They laugh at witty innuendos and weighted gossip, at silly notions and good-natured mistakes. To everyone on this Isle, they are a beacon of light and cheer, and Lyon could kick himself for not realizing sooner just how performative their happiness has been.

He's studied the seven nations extensively, he's read analyses and accounts of the Corvali Courts, there's no reason why he shouldn't have deduced the sort of behaviors to develop there. In such situations, everyone must put forth a reputation, a shell, to protect their true desires and intentions.

Lyon realizes, far too late, that Kite is no different.

Their mask is not one of allure, or seduction, or weakness. No, Kite projects cheer and delight like the greatest of actors, displaying wonder at every new sight and always assuming the best of others. They make themself likeable, entertaining, so that no-one will consider them an opponent to eliminate. How much must they be thinking and analyzing, day after day and minute after minute, beneath those smiles and peals of laughter?

In the fifth week of the Summit, he sees them laugh for the first time. They've taken to practicing their lines for the theatrical with him, cloistered away in the corners of the library or the shadows of the gazebo (and once, memorably, hunched around the desk in their quarters with one of their lady's maids tidying around the room). Today, he comments off-hand about the characters, and startles a quiet laugh from them. It's soft, light and breathy and so utterly unlike everything they've shown before, and Lyon feels a gentle bubble of wonder expand within his chest at the sound. Their cheeks flush ever-so-slightly, one hand coming up to cover their mouth in a motion that appears almost shy, and their eyes shine.

They're beautiful, and Lyon swallows hard against the urge to pull them into his arms and never let go.

How much must they trust him, to dispose of the facades like this? To confide in him the truth of their nature, this quiet and delicacy that no-one else has been allowed to see. Somehow, by some miracle, he has made himself safe enough that Kite can slowly, hesitantly become themself again with him, and that is more wonder than any text or tome he has found on this Isle.

Today, he sees them laugh - truly laugh, without a shred of disguise - and Lyon realizes sharply that he will give anything to hear the sound again. Realizes, with a strength of feeling so unlike him, that he wants to give them a future where they never have to hide such things away.

Hopes, with an ache he has long suppressed, that it will be within his power to do so.

They deserve nothing less than happiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do I possibly project a lot of idealized relationship dynamics onto these two? Yes. Does that mean they end up fluffy and supportive and loving and wholesome? Also yes.


	11. Anticipation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 11: Anticipation.
> 
> ft. Irina of Hise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CW: Suicide Mention.**

Irina's not sure what she's waiting for.

There is something, certainly - the soft waver of his voice, sometimes, when they speak. The weight, so unusually gentle, of his gaze meeting hers. There is something, surely, when the brush of his hand lingers like a brushstroke of warmth along her arm, felt so clearly even through layers of fabric and old fear. Is it so wrong, that she can't find it in herself to be afraid? Is this a sign that she's once more become a fool, or has the world finally seen fit to bring something precious into her life (instead of taking it away)?

She's not sure what it is, what name to put to these sorts of slow-stirring feelings. Her chest grows heavy, these days, with unspoken things. At times, they even overwhelm the desire for finale, washing away every thought of death with a strange, painful sort of hope. It's wrong, isn't it? Isn't it so wrong?

Because- because Irina has to wish to die, doesn't she? Without such longing, without that crystalline dagger guiding her way, what in the world is she left to do? Who is she, without poisons in her pockets and ghosts at her door?

If she ceases to strain towards death, will she still be herself anymore? Melancholia and suicide have defined her now for enough time that Irina cannot remember who she was before such things came into her heart. What passions and delights passed through her hands, back when she was young and undamaged? What did she desire as a child?

What did she once love?

(She can't recall.)

If- if a day should come when death no longer hangs heavy around her wrists, when her heart is freed to search for a purpose once more... what, then, should she do? Will those gentle looks, that quiet touch, come to mean something more? Will there be other gifts to discover, if the world allows her such an impossible kindness? Could it ever be possible for her to be loved, as broken as she is?

(The version of herself she sometimes meets in dreams would scream and weep, for such things. That girl pounds her fists against the door of Irina's mind, nails scratching against the wood in a plaintive cry for freedom.

Once upon a time, she would have begged to the spirits and skies. Asking anything willing to listen to please, please send someone who will love her again. Please, send someone who will hold her and believe in her, who will press kisses to her brow and smile for her happiness, someone who will make her want to live again because their love will be enough to live for.

Please, in a silent mantra as she fell asleep, please send someone who will love her.

As she is, tired and flawed and heavy beneath the weight of old wounds that have long failed to heal. As she is, cunning and naïvely idealistic, high hopes for the world and none left for herself.

Please, someone - anyone, please love her.)

Here and now, Jasper gazes at her like he believes she could rehang the very stars in the sky if they should begin to fall. He stands a little nearer every day, presence a comforting assurance at her shoulder, ready to catch her when she stumbles or to keep her upright and unafraid with a light hand pressed to the center of her spine. His touches are gentle, his voice even and breaking into more emotion with the passing time, and Irina almost wants to believe he could change the will of the world with little but the strength of his conviction and his heart.

Irina's not sure what he's waiting for. They are both waiting, caught in a dance that circles ever-closer in winding rings across the ballroom floor. She knows none of the steps, nor does he, and yet together they lead one another through the flow of an unfamiliar song.

Whatever this is, these feelings she cannot name when she thinks of her poisons and her friends and the secret warmth of Jasper's smile, Irina wants them to come forward - the version of her that walks and breaths and remembers, piece by piece, how to be happy. She is ready to scream and beg, pound her fists against the wooden door of her own heart, because with every day her wish for death subsides beneath the tide of something new and frighteningly powerful.

To the spirits, and to the seas - please, if anything is willing to listen, please let this seed of a future come into bloom. This possibility, this kindness, please don't make her wait any longer.

Else this anticipation may truly be the end of her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoof, if I hadn't already added the Hise Pirate/Jasper tag, now would be the time to do it.
> 
> Irie has complicated feelings that are challenging and interesting to write. You know that sort of hopeful feeling that hurts so badly, you just want an answer so your heart can rest? ... yeah.


	12. Safe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 12: Safe.
> 
> ft. Irina Kolyuchka.
> 
> _Double-Shot of Love AU._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CW: Torture, guns, sexual harassment, homophobic & ableist slurs, implied trauma.**

Irina returns to consciousness with a splash of cold water and a harsh, bright light, and thinks to herself: _Wow, this is familiar_.

There's no way to tell how long she's been out, or where she is, even as she analyses her surroundings with a detached, clinical eye. A large, uncovered window on the far side of the room indicates an elevated building, with less risk of passers-by peering inside. The room is spacious and paneled in anachronistically cheerful yellow-and-pink wallpaper, with a hardwood floor. She can just see a hallway branching off of one wall, the sliver of a doorframe visible around the corner. There are patterns on the floor where dust has been disturbed as furniture and objects were moved from established positions.

An apartment, certainly - judging by the size and quality, it's likely the closest thing to a penthouse the building or area can offer. Using such a nice place seems impractical for an interrogation, she muses dully, focusing on her thoughts as her mind blanks out physical sensation. A useful trick that took far too much to learn.

At least her current captors aren't the sort of bumbling idiots that grabbed her last time. Sure, they're pretty pretentious, camping out in a nice apartment and having such confidence that they don't block the window or barricade the door (the acoustics are too open, down the visible hallway) - but this is still less of a blow to her pride than getting knocked out with a baseball bat in a deli parking lot. The figures slowly blurring into focus before her have had the sense to cover their faces and hair - though they're still morons, leaving skin uncovered and wearing black clothes tight enough to reveal an embarrassing number of physical characteristics. Not amateurs, but barely better.

The person standing in front of her leans over to adjust the light in her eyes, fixing the angle to maximize glare. He's clearly the leader, moving with an air of pompous confidence - broad-shouldered and solidly built, with a slight hunch to his shoulders and paunch to his gut that put him around the beginning of middle age. He moves as though one of his arms is stiff - an old injury, typically, or joint trouble. The ski mask covering his face bulges around his chin, because he clearly didn't have the sense to shave off his beard before indulging in some good old-fashioned criminal activity.

Honestly, if he'd wanted to keep it that badly, he should have gone with a tall-collared jacket or a heavy scarf. _Morons._

Irina resists the urge to roll her eyes as he pulls up a chair - cushioned and wood-framed, with carved arms and a nice backrest, how _bourgeoisie_ \- and sits down in front of her, crossing his arms in a way that's surely meant to be imposing. It's too bad he'll be out of luck with her.

"Well, well. Welcome back, Miss Kolyuchka. I have some questions for you."

Good god, his posturing is almost painful to watch. Please, for the love of everything under the sun, can the world at least send competent people to kidnap her by now? Irina didn't suffer through years of organized crime to be disrespected by these two-bit _wanna-be white collar con men_. Against logic, she twitches against her bindings - hands tied behind the chair with rough rope, the knot is too loose, and they only bothered to tie one leg _GOD save her from these idiots_ \- and Bossman chuckles like some fake-genial courthouse attorney.

"Now, now, none of that. I'm afraid we can't let you go until you've told us what we need to hear."

Man, does she want to punch him in the face. The other two are glancing at each other like they've got similar sentiments, which is fifty percent hilarious and fifty percent useful - if they're less invested in this business than Bossman, there's a chance they can be intimidated into giving up. (She's still going to kick the younger guy holding the bucket in the balls, though. Fucking cunt. She might let the woman go.)

She lets out a breath, blowing wet strands of hair out of her face. "You know, you'd be more efficient by starting with your questions. Being polite wastes time."

Bossman's mask warps a bit, like he's smiling underneath. "Is that so? Such a sweet girl, helping this old man out." Definitely early middle age, probably around his late forties or early fifties, with that patronizing tone. "We know you're associated with those Veil bastards-" Ah, foul mouth. Must be extra crass in regular life, and tried to tamp it down under the gentleman-criminal act. "-and, see, they've been up to some business that's put me in a bit of a bind. I'm out quite a lot of money, thanks to them, so-"

The light swings again, glare flashing in and out of her field of vision as it moves from right to left. Do these idiots even realize she's left-blind?

"I need names. Locations. Account numbers, if they're stupid enough to give that information to a little girl like you."

Irina can't quite help the response that slips out. "You do realize I'm in my twenties, right? I know, I've got great skin, but-"

The hand that cracks across her cheekbone is neither a surprise nor a disappointment. She catches a whiff of his cologne - one of those brands that tries to seem high-end, but the sour aftertones give it away as a lower-quality mimic - and raises an eyebrow in his direction when he leans back. He seems almost disappointed by her lack of reaction, which just goes to show how stupid he must be - little man didn't do his research. Best hope he doesn't let her near any weapons.

Bucket speaks up, instantly recognizable as an asshole with a bachelor's degree in creative writing who probably submitted short stories about his ex-girlfriends in class. "Don't be full of yourself, you crazy bitch! You're disgusting!"

Ah, he's looking at her burns. She should wait a little longer before mouthing off again, so she settles for a deadpan stare at Bossman. In the corner of her eye, Lady In Black seems to be giving her partner a stink-eye - maybe his raging misogyny gets on her nerves too. Wouldn't be a surprise, with those sorts. If Irina's lucky, maybe she'll get sick enough of it to take them out without Irina's involvement. File that away as backup plan 'F'.

Fingers brush across her left cheek and she goes still, attention focusing on Bossman as the douchbag caresses her face. "Now, now, don't let Robbie get to you." Catalogue the name, remember it. Gather intel. Fucking _creep_. "You've got quite a lovely face, Miss Kolyuchka. It's such a shame, these flaws, but there's still a lot of appeal here." He grips her chin, tilting her head side to side, in and out of the light. "I wonder if your friends in Veil will be more willing to acquiesce to our demands if we get it a little dirty."

Again, fucking creep. Don't think. Don't think. Don't think. Don't think don't think _don't think-_

He eyes her for a few long moments, then pulls back. "No reaction, is it? Such a pity. Robbie, if you'd please?"

Something cold kisses her skin, and Irina recognizes the light touch of a knife in less time than it takes to blink. The tip traces along the messy lines of her scars. Bucket - Robbie, most certainly short for Robert, creative-writing _Douchbag_ \- hovers a little too close as he moves the blade from her chin to the skin below her blind eye, his breath hot where it hits her forehead. _Don't think about it._

Bossman leans back, crossing his arms. "For each question you refuse to answer, Robbie will open one of those unfortunate blemishes. I do hope you'll be willing to cooperate, Miss Kolyuchka - it will be quite a shame if your friends are unable to recognize you when we're finished. Now- what are the names of Veil's operatives?"

"Which names? They have several, they're not idiots."

Pain flares along the side of her cheek as the knife bites in, and Bossman tuts disapprovingly. "My, my, I'm sure you know which ones I mean."

Ignore the pain. Ignore the hot blood on her skin. Ignore the water in her hair. Ignore the breath on her forehead, the ghosts caressing unfortunate things. "And what makes you think I know the ones you're asking for? I'm not an agent, after all."

Another cut, this one higher along her temple. All barely surface-level so far - Douchbag may be a flaming trash-heap, but it's obvious he's never really done this before, every motion barely hesitant. Irina can feel the knife tremble ever-so-slightly when it digs into her skin. Lady In Black is looking more and more uncomfortable with this whole thing, attention diverted further from the exits with every second.

_Idiots._

Bossman leans forward, elbows on his knees. "What about the handsome one, then? That fine man with the silver hair, who was waiting for you after work? Poor thing, must be so concerned when you never came. You seem to know him quite well."

Jasper. They mean Jasper. They want her to talk about Jasper. Must be mad, if they think she'll ever breathe a word about him to the likes of them. She will never give him up - give any of them up, not in a million years.

She'll die before a single name crosses her lips.

"And that young fellow with the cane, from the club. The two of you appear quite close."

Breathe steady. "My friend works there. I just keep running into him when I go visit. Crazy happenstance. Don't know his name, sorry."

This time, the blade opens an old gash in her lower lip, and it grows harder to remain outwardly unaffected. Irina can feel the blood beginning to well up in the divot between her lip and her gum, tastes copper and bitter on the edges of her tongue. The press of metal cuts deeper than before, and longer, tracing a line down to the edge of her chin. Hot breath hits her ear as Douchbag whispers, heavy and riled.

"Bet they don't care about your sick face when you're spreading your legs. Pity you can't find a real man to fuck you, settling for fags and cripples."

Don't think. Fuck, it would be so _easy_ \- dislocate a wrist, slip out of the shitty ropes, grab the knife, slice Douchbag's throat open before he can move away. Cut the ankle ropes, hit Bossman with a knee, get a chokehold and keep him hostage until they back down. Or grab him, break his neck, knife Lady In Black between the fourth and fifth ribs, escape. _God, it would be so easy to just kill them all._ And then she wouldn't have to listen to _this-_ these unwelcome ghosts, these pathetic attempts at making her bow and break.

Breathe. Do not move. Do not react.

Lady In Black is moving further away from the hall, her attention focused on Irina's interrogation. Good - good for Irina, stupid for her. Bossman eyes Douchbag sternly but doesn't tell him to stop. That's okay. Irina can wait. She can wait as long as she needs.

"And what of your handsome friend, then?"

Don't react. Smile. "You think he tells me anything? Please. That man's got secrets stuffed up to his ears, he's not going to share them. Especially not with some pathetic, scarred bitch who won't fuck him." Technically true, since she isn't particularly interested in taking an active or dominant role with such activities, and thus by heteronormative colloquialisms is not 'fucking' anybody. The knife digs in again, this time skirting dangerous close to her eye. Irina almost wants to dare the fucker to try it, just to see his reaction when she doesn't give a shit. A little _eye scream_ might make them think twice about their choice of hostages.

What's visible of Bossman's face twists, as though he's raising an eyebrow. "That seems quite a pity."

"I'm not lying." 

Her words echo in the room differently, minutely, and Irina forces herself to repress a laugh. What idiots. What utter, _utter_ idiots. There is a current of air where there wasn't before. God, she wants to cackle in their faces.

Too bad it's almost over.

Bossman taps pale fingers against his knees, the nails cut close and trimmed evenly. "But you see, Miss Kolyuchka, I'm not so sure of that. Perhaps we'll have to take more drastic measures to... convince you, of your interest in cooperation."

Douchbag and the knife move away, reappearing on Irina's right side with - oh my _god_ , are those literal thumbscrews? What are these guys, a medieval reenactment troupe? Excessive BDSM enthusiasts? Good god, who even _sells_ thumbscrews in this day and age? (Obviously _Irina's_ seen them before, but she has a criminal pedigree, damn it! These morons are barely third-rate crooks!)

Fuck, she's almost disappointed they won't get a chance to use them.

A shadow stretches along the doorframe visible in the hallway, and Lady In Black barely has time to gasp before the dart embedded in the back of her neck does its work and she drops unconscious. The sound of her body hitting the floor alerts Bossman and Douchbag, and the latter stumbles backwards. The thumbscrews drop to the floor with a painfully loud clatter, and Irina takes the opportunity to throw herself and the chair to the side as a quick success of shots ring through the room.

Douchbag goes down, one fast-acting tranquilizer bullet in his right shoulder. Nonlethal, both in damage and aim - it's impressive marksmanship, and Irina knows instinctively who made the shot.

"My dear, thank you so much for not giving me more bullet holes to mend."

Now, with a familiar face in the room, she can allow herself an honest smile. "One of these days, you're going to learn how to worry about the bullet holes in your friends, and when that day comes I am going to laugh at you. I'm gonna laugh _so hard_."

Pristine white gloves retrieve the knife and cut through her bindings with clean efficiency, and Irina shakes out the offended limbs as she stands and stretches. Her wrists are a little chafed, but there's no issue with the bloodflow and they didn't do anything to her tattoos. Lady In Black is down and out, Douchbag is knocked out with vengeance, and Bossman is-

Another gunshot echoes in the small room and Irina flinches back on instinct, pulling out of the way of the poorly-aimed bullet that embeds itself in the wall behind her. _Bossman isn't even holding his handgun right_ , a part of her mind despairs. _God, why can't she ever be kidnapped by competent criminals?_ This is disappointing.

The man aims again, and it's almost child's play to knock the gun away with a well-placed blow to the wrist. Another one to his weak shoulder for good measure, and Irina kicks the handgun over to Zarad since her fingerprints could corrupt the evidence. He picks it up, clicks the safety on, and wraps it in a handkerchief - Irina stifles another laugh, because of course he isn't carrying a single evidence bag and yet has kerchiefs to spare. That's Zarad all over - practicality hidden beneath a half-dozen layers of flamboyant layabout and too many dainty handkerchiefs and neckties.

He passes another cloth to Irina, who presses it to the still-bleeding cuts and breathes. They'll probably get proper medical attention soon, but a bit of pressure will help. The one in her lip will need stitches, ugh.

Zarad levels a considering look at Bossman, lips curling into a genial smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "I look forward to your laughter. Now, if you'd be a darling and do me a favor, I've got some friends outside who are simply _desperate_ to hear a report on the situation. Won't you go let them know for me? I believe there are a few things I need to take care of here before we're all done."

Oof, that's the side of him she doesn't usually see. She almost feels sorry for Bossman, who clearly knows he's in big trouble. "At least try to keep him conscious. It's a pain to wait for them to wake up."

The skin around Bossman's eyes blanches, and he all but collapses back into the chair with his gaze fixed on the knife still in Zarad's very capable hands. He's not going to torture the man, obviously - everyone at Veil operates with a high degree of professionalism and poise, and torture for the sake of torture is simply below their standards. Luckily - or perhaps unluckily for Bossman - Zarad is exceptionally skilled at making people beg for mercy without ever laying a finger on them. A part of her wants to stay and watch, but there are people waiting for her.

Her assessment of the surroundings seems to have been accurate, as Irina wanders through an expansive suite of rooms before exiting into a carpeted hallway. A short ways down is an elevator, and she doesn't hesitate to step inside and punch the button for basement parking. If the building hadn't had one, they would've been waiting in the lobby - but it's there, so she knows for certain where she needs to go. 

Barely has she set foot on the parking lot asphalt before she's pulled into a tight, desperate embrace. A faint aroma of redflower touches her senses, and Irina chokes back a laugh that feels more like a sob. "Jas, Zarad's going to scold you for ruining another suit."

"Let him scold, then."

"I'm all wet, you'll get soaked."

"Elisabeth packed towels, they're in the car."

"They'll all get bloodstains."

"You yourself taught us how to wash those out." The arms around her loosen and shift as Jasper pulls back, just far enough to look down and meet Irina's eyes as his hands gently cup her cheeks. His brows are pulled tight, lines of tension visible around his eyes and the corners of his mouth. His hair is tidy as always, nary a strand out of place, but even a fool could see the edge he has been teetering on. "It's okay, Irina. You're safe, we've got you. You can rest now."

Once the first breath catches in her throat, it's all over, and the tears begin to leak out before she can stop them. Jasper presses light kisses to her forehead, her cheeks, the lids of her eyes as she squeezes them shut and tries not to completely break down. There are so many ghosts here, sticking to her skin and whispering in her ears like heavy rain, and it's so hard to drown them out. Tremors run through her legs, and only the fact that there are kind hands holding her keeps her from collapsing on the cold asphalt. She can't stop shaking - god, it's been so many years, she should be able to stop shaking and yet- _and yet-_

Jasper pulls her back in close, arms wrapping around her back and lips murmuring kind nothings into her damp hair. Asks permission, soft and gentle, before reaching behind her knees and lifting her into the air, carrying her over to the Veil vehicle. A concerned voice speaks from the driver's seat of the car, and Jasper responds, but Irina can't hear the words any longer.

She buries her face in his shoulder, even as her cuts sting and burn, and weeps until she has no tears left to shed. It's okay to break down, now that it's over.

She's safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What the fuck. Why is this one so long. What the fuck. I got way too invested.
> 
> Anyways, this takes place a while after the previous two ficlets in this universe - this is long after Irina & the others have discovered what the spy agency (which we've decided is called Veil, as a very tongue-in-cheek homage to Vail Isle and also bc veils hide things) does, and also after the relationships have Properly been established.
> 
> The 'young man with the cane' is Charlie, an OC I created for an AU where Doc and quill and I have multiple MCs in the same Summit, and needed more butlers to match. He's on the younger side, very sweet-natured and enthusiastic, and looks up to Jasper a lot. He has a huge crush on another OC I made as a ladies maid for the same AU, Naoise. He has a leg injury that left him with a limp, and uses mobility aids to move around. (Initially this was only one specific AU but I think it's just a trait for him now).
> 
> Elisabeth (mentioned) is quill's! She's the best, I love her. I really want to include her in one of these ficlets. Fingers crossed!!


	13. Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 13: Up.
> 
> ft. Kite of Corval.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **No content warnings for this chapter.**

Kite's always liked high places.

And it's not just that they've always been a short person, either. They are more than satisfied with their height, thank you very much! And before you get into their body type - yes, they're quite happy with that as well! A little extra curve and cushion never hurt anyone, and wider hips just mean more body to dance with. Everyone who matters has never complained, and those who have simply don't matter - that's all there is to it.

But hips and height aside, Kite has always liked high places. Something about the sensation of being suspended in the air, overlooking the world from a new perspective, just has the most magical feeling to it. And when they fly on silks, it's as though they've turned into a bird - but not one within a gilded cage, as the Courts so often like to equate them to.

No, on silks they are free, able to fly wherever they please. Such a beautiful thing.

And okay, maybe when they enter a relationship with the tallest man at the Summit by a wide margin, the idea does cross their mind. Once. Or twice. Or maybe quite a few more times than that. Look, when you see someone who is tall and beautiful (and has to have at least decent arm strength, because books and tomes are awfully heavy), sometimes you just want them to pick you up! It's a totally normal desire to have. No, Kite is not weird - well, not because of this, anyways.

The thing is, though... how do you go up to your (boyfriend? partner? fiancé? wonderful wonderful lovely person?) and ask him, in no uncertain terms, if he wouldn't mind please lifting your entire body weight into the air every now and then? It's a bit of an awkward question to pose.

Thankfully, Kite has both very little shame to spare, and knows that the best way to express an honest desire is the precise opposite of whatever the courts taught them.

So it is with perhaps an undue amount of confidence that they pause beside Lyon, during one of their more regular meetings in the less populous areas of the Isle, and ask, "Do you think you would be able to pick me up, Lyon? Physically, that is."

It earns them the delightful sight of Lyon stumbling over nothing, off-balance and blinking quickly as he turns to look at them. "... What brought this on?"

"Oh, I was just thinking about it, is all. Since you're quite tall, and I'm- well, quite not!" Kite beams, offering him a steadying hand. An idea flickers across their mind and they suppress a laugh. "It would make some things rather easier, for one - things like kissing, or biting, or-"

"Alright, I see your point." A pretty flush decorates his cheeks, and Kite internally awards themself another tally on the 'flustering' scoreboard. They're leading, though not by much. For all that he's rather unfamiliar with these emotional intimacy types of things, Lyon is nothing if not a remarkably quick learner. "I- I suppose it could be possible, though we would have to work out optimal processes and positions to ensure stability. Perhaps different types of leverage-"

Oh, this will take forever. "Lyon, dear, please bend down."

He does so obediently, the flush still quite visible across his pale skin and curiosity glinting behind his glasses.

"Perfect. Now you put your left arm behind my knees, right arm around my back, and lift using your legs."

And oop- there they are! Kite's smile feels as though it may just break their face in two, and they wrap their arms around Lyon's neck as he straightens back up to his full height. His grip is a little awkward, but steady, and they can almost see his mind rapidly running through equations and formulas for the physical sciences of the motion. Goodness, he's adorable.

They pull one arm back to tap him on the nose. "There, you see? Works like a charm!"

"I- and what is the benefit of this, again?"

Kite does laugh this time, settling their hands on Lyon's shoulders and looking into his eyes. "Well, we'll have to work out some of the kinks, but... isn't this so much easier on the neck? Now I can see your eyes much better." They bring one hand back up to rest, feather-light, against his cheek. His skin is warm from both sun and flush. "Of course, if you can do it with one arm that's better, but- oh!"

"Like this?"

Now they're the one flustered. Add another point to Lyon's side of the mental scoreboard, as he exhales and readjusts his grip on their legs. It's a little unwieldy yet, but Kite's head is above his and they can see the sky as clear as ever, the shadow their body casts across his face. Goodness, but he really is beautiful. The powerful urge to kiss him, to lean down and capture this wonderful man's lips, wrenches at their heartstrings.

Instead, they sigh with a shaking breath, balancing themself against his shoulder and smiling.

"You really are a remarkably quick learner."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kite is like 5'2" you guys. They're short. Lyon is at least a full foot taller than them.
> 
> Also, for minor background info, they've dabbled in aerial silks for a while! It's a hobby of theirs.


	14. Consume

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 14: Consume.
> 
> ft. Irina of Hise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I guess... warning for Irina's general pessimism/nihilism? Also CW: Fire mention.**

The thing about fire is that it devours you from the inside.

Not earthly fires, of course. Irina knows full well that those burn from your skin to your bones, remembers all too clearly the agony spreading through her veins. She ran back into the blaze so many times she lost count, once upon a time, and now it feels as though a part of that fire has made itself a home within her. Writhing and boiling.

She wonders, time to time, if anyone else has a fire nestled in their belly. If anyone else feels the way she feels, burnt up from within her very bones until there is little left but ash and a soul.

Some days, she wonders if the fire has indeed eaten her up, and left nothing but itself within her shell.

The thing about oaths and promises, Irina wants to tell Jasper, is that they consume you and consume you and consume everything that you used to be until you are barely a walking vow. The words sit trapped beneath her tongue every time he meets her eyes and thinks she has the power to change things. Every time something is asked that tips on her shoulders like the beginning of a landslide.

How can he ever think she is able to do what he cannot? Can't he see that the fire has burnt everything about her away, and left nothing but skin and scars and a porcelain smile? Can't he see that she is full of ashes?

Some days, Irina wonders if Jasper is on fire too, burning up inside from all of the secrets he keeps and cannot touch. These things will rot a person's soul, melting and melting until it seeps between their ribs and calcifies into something hard and unfeeling. These things will turn you to cold stone.

And Jasper - Jasper is so many things that stone is not. He is gentle and kind, thoughtful and intelligent and so dedicated it's nearly heartbreaking. Grace is born in the motion of his hands, and his smile dawns as beautifully as the sun on a clear winter day. Sometimes, it seems like he's watching a world that is so much more precious than anything Irina has ever seen.

She wishes she could look through his eyes and understand.

She doesn't want the cold fire burning inside of him to consume all of that beauty and life. Please, to the uncaring world out there, don't make him like her.

Irina is already nothing more than ash and old dreams. For someone like her, there should be nothing left to burn, so why does she still feel a flame tickling at the inside of her heart? Why does just the sight of him make her want to run back into the blaze?

Is that the thing people call 'hope'?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Irie, hon... pls get help.


	15. Tender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 15: Tender.
> 
> ft. Irina of Hise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CW: Set Accident aftermath, unhealthy coping mechanisms, Irina's lowkey suicidal ass.**

When they get back to her chambers, splinters in her hair and pinprick speckles of blood staining his pristine suit, the air feels as though it's been replaced by cotton. Irina's not sure she can speak, through it all - sound filters strangely, muffled by the pounding heartbeat in her ears. The lifeblood that came so close to running out.

Jasper helps clean the scratches on her face, wraps the reopened scars on her wrists with fresh bandages. His touch is a feather against her skin, and Irina wants to drown in it.

She wants to feel enough that she feels nothing.

For the first time in months, Irina wishes desperately for a drink strong enough to numb the pain away. For any of the powders she knows, a dosage balanced in the sweet spot between hallucinations and death where the world will simply fade away for a little while. Skies, what she wouldn't give for something, anything, to make the feelings stop. Alcohol, drugs - fuck, even sex, anything to make her stop thinking.

But she can't - can't do that to Jasper, can't make him bear witness to any more of her secret ugliness. His kindness is so tender, so precious - and she can't bear to lose it, when they already have so little time.

Her fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket as he leans closer to plait her hair, touch far too gentle. It's hard to repress the instinct to do something she knows they'll both regret, and instead she allows herself to fall forward until her forehead rests against his chest, breathing through the cotton. His heart is still beating just a touch too fast, loud where her ear rests above his heart.

Everything is oil pigments in turpentine, cleaning the emotions off like brushes. Irina wishes she could clean herself so easily. Wishes, for the first time in a long time, that she could simply bury herself in something (or someone) until everything came to an end.

Jasper's hands leave her hair to caress her face, light and painfully gentle, and she forces herself to stay still. Don't pull away, don't pull closer.

Skies, she wants to drown in him, until she can't remember what wanting to die even tasted like.

But here and now, in the quiet of the night, his arms wrap around her and pull her close once more, his breathing a soft lullaby above her temple. Here, now, Irina can grasp the back of his jacket and bury herself in his embrace. Dance this still, silent dance with him until they are both able to be whole once more, until the break of day and reason once more pull them apart.

For now, it will have to be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Irina has a bad history of using various bad coping mechanisms to deal with stuff, whether substance abuse, control issues, disordered eating/self-care, self-harm, etc... she's a bunch of messy shit wrapped up in a person. She's trying to get better, though.


	16. Explore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 16: Explore.
> 
> ft. Irina of Hise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I feel like Irina has to be her own content warning at this point.**
> 
> **Uh... suicide mention, poison/drug mention, let me know if more need to be warned for?**

Logically speaking, Irina knows she has a lot of choices here.

She's good enough with people (with manipulating people) that if she wanted to, it would be easy enough to get anyone here under her sway. All of that practice in baiting predators managed to actually teach useful skills, who would have thought? It takes work, but no-one ever said making people fall in love would be easy - let alone forcing nations into a seemingly impossible peace.

Princess Katyia did it once, long ago. Brought seven kingdoms together, taking nothing but the hearts of the world in payment. Everyone had adored her.

If Irina can do one meaningful thing with her life before she goes out (with a bang, with a whimper), following in the near-deified Princess's footsteps doesn't sound like a half-bad plan.

Irina will never be the person Katyia was - of that she has no illusions. She's a walking corpse two steps from letting the sea take her, hideously scarred and poison-tongued. As dishonest and disturbed as they come. Katyia never stooped so low as to educate herself in the poisons of man, how to measure a dosage just shy of lethal and how to swallow toxins upon toxins until it would take less to kill an elephant from Corval than to kill her.

Katyia knew the human heart. But Irina knows the human mind, knows all of its cruel tricks and strange, twisted dreams. If one dishonest person could have the ability make the world a better place, then perhaps it's best for Irina to put the rest of her living energy into it. It's the only good she's capable of, she thinks.

She wonders, sipping a flute of some bubbling alcohol that fails to make her even remotely tipsy, if it would be better to pursue a romance or better to remain alone. A political marriage isn't on the table - if all goes as planned, Irina won't be alive long enough for it to pay off, and suicide won't be as forgivable by a political alliance as it might by a grieving lover. Is Irina important enough to Hise's political situation that tying herself to another nation would be of benefit? It's not as though she cares much, either way.

No matter how it goes, though, she's got to make good impressions across the board if she wants to get all of these nobles on the same page. Skies, but the blue-blooded really are some of the worst types of people, aren't they? At least, it helps ease her conscious about manipulating all of them.

It's the legacy she'll deserve. The girl who brought peace through horrible means, and then died as she was always meant to. A perfect bow tied on her time in this world.

Just like always, it's best to start by casing the joint and the prospective targets. It's easiest to mark them by their nation of origin, since nobody has quite dispersed from their groups yet - well, Irina has, but that's solely because she is no more comfortable with the rest of the Hisean delegation than she is with any living person. (Wasn't that once different?)

The only notable name from the Skaldic delegation is Princess Anaele. Irina's not particularly worried about appealing to her, because it's not exactly a secret that the princess appreciates women a far degree more than men. Show her prettiest face - Skalt, at the very least, won't mind the hideous scarring - and express any sort of capability beyond having servants waiting upon her every move, and Anaele will be more than happy to declare whatever sort of friendship is needed. (Irina kind of admires that, how the Princess can be so confident and honest about herself. What a life that must be to lead).

Naturally, she glances over her own countrymen next, if only for a fleeting glance. Most of them are straightforward sailors - there, the man well-known for his poet's tongue, and beside him the woman known for her ability to bench-press three poets and ride another to oblivion if he so desires. Irina wonders what they know her as - Blackthorn's failed daughter, likely. Or the girl who lures disgusting men into the night and metes out their earned justice.

She doubts they've heard of her as the young Lady of Ravenskeep, much less the pitiful daughter who tried to slit her wrists in the upstairs corner bedroom. It's all for the best, really. Her cuffs already itch.

Prince Hamin, who has always hated his title, stands in the thick of the group. It is something that Hisean nobility are at least no worse than the common masses, and Hamin is at least a good man - piracy and manners aside. Does he remember, Irina wonders, that he'd played with her as a child whenever her parents visited to speak to his father? He'd been five years her elder and world-wise, taking her by the hand and tearing through the estate to all of the best secret hideaways.

He probably doesn't even realize she's the same girl who came to visit.

Behind him, Princess Cordelia is using her cousin's body as a shelter from the energetic masses. Irina never met the princess, and has never wished to. A young lady as proper as Cordelia would never fit properly in Hise, not the way her pirate cousins have done. Perhaps it's for the best that she's here, with a chance of getting away.

Observe, note, explore the options available.

Irina has little patience for the Corvali faction, all aflutter with their gossips and whispers and secrets. She'll be playing the game enough as it is without getting pulled into such petty intrigues. The third prince catches her eye - well, insofar as he makes eye contact and winks, proving both that the rumors of his awful flirtatiousness are true, and that he is likely actively encouraging such rumors to hide anything else about his person from the public eye. Shrewd. He'll be a challenge, though not anything Irina can't surmount.

Duke Lyon, of the Jiyel delegation, at least looks nearly as uncomfortable with all the socializing as she feels. Irina catches his eye and tips her flute, looking away so as not to give the impression that she's trying to draw him into unwanted interaction. He should be easy enough to appeal to, as someone who clearly favors common sense over this ridiculous spectacle - the wrinkles in his clothes and his haphazard bun tell her more than enough about that.

Also on the edge of the throng, Lady Avalie is looking around the room much like Irina. She gets the feeling that the petite Jiyeli woman is observing their new cohabitants just as Irina is, though perhaps not for the same reason. Whether their reasons can work together will yet be seen.

Arland - ugh. The less to be said of Arland, the better. All young men, dolled-up and stuffed into unflattering suits with their hair coiffed into false curls. Probably talking about their beloved God or some similar horseshit. It will be a cold day in summer when she every sees eye-to-eye with one of their sort. The young Earl - something that started with an E, Irina could swear she must have seen him on the island at one point - at least looks less covered in pomade than the others, but that just means his judgement will have to be postponed until she can hear what comes out of his mouth.

She's not getting her hopes up.

Great crested waves, people are exhausting. She almost just wants to give up the Wellish and Revairan delegations as a lost cause, but - no, Irina is going to bring these foolish, petty people together if it kills her. (Goodness, but that would save her quite a lot of trouble, wouldn't it? Perhaps she should hope it kills her).

Wellin's delegation is, unfortunately, a bit underwhelming. Aside from the royal siblings, most of the lords and ladies present simply seem a little bland. Irina can't glean even a scrap of personality from their mannerisms and forms of dress - and it's not because they're hiding well. It's hard to not immediately pass the nation off as having less substance than a loaf of unseasoned flatbread, and it's solely thanks to Princess Penelope that Irina doesn't immediately give up on them all.

The Princess is clearly a lovely person, even from an observation distance. Happiness and anxiety glow in equal measure from her flushed cheeks, and her silver tiara is twined with fresh flowers that fade from green to white at the edges. She hangs close beside her brother, but continuously offers sweet smiles and assurances to the other Wellish delegates.

Crown Prince Lisle seems more focused on the rest of the room, though his attention clearly hasn't left his sister behind. He gauges each new face with an even, tempered gaze, judgement meted out fairly and with a noble smile. Irina wants to hate him, she really does - but for a moment he meets her eyes, and the soft touch of sincerity enters his expression.

Even if it's just pity, just a moment of surprise at the scars itching on her skin - still, that's more kindness than some would show. He's safe for now.

The same can't be said of the young Crown Prince of Revaire, who takes one look at Irina and sneers openly. Jarrod is clearly a man who enjoys holding power over others, who gets a real kick out of using those weaker than him - Irina's baited men of his sort before. This will be no different.

Such a pity, she can't punish him the usual way. His crass expression could use a bit of mutiliation, might teach him better than to regard women as sheep and playthings.

Besides, the sister beside him is clearly the more dangerous of the two - and not just because she is older, more intelligent, and likely as fed up with her brother as the rest of the sensible world. Jarrod may look at women like they're sheep, but Princess Gisette couldn't more clearly be a wolf, surveying the herds around her and licking her lips. Irina can work her, but she'll have to be careful when wrangling such a beast.

The only other member of the Revairan party worth noting is the sole person not fawning over one or both of the royal siblings. Lord Clarmont looks comfortable with the situation, but Irina would be a fool to dismiss the way his hand hovers at the hilt of a sword he hasn't been allowed to wear while on the Isle. Unlike the siblings, he at least seems to give half a shit for other people, going by the clear sympathy in his eyes as he glances at some of the more nervous delegates. That's fine. For Irina, playing to someone with sympathy is as easy as breathing.

After all, she's got tragedy to spare. Use that to stopper the door, offer reciprocal emotion to drive the wedge in, and get into the meaningful discussions without too much trouble.

Perhaps it should bother her, the idea of measuring the living people around her as little more than strings upon a violin, awaiting her bow. Once upon a time, didn't Irina care for people too? She had friends as a child, she's certain. There used to be days when she laughed at jokes, kicked up her feet in dances, sang as loud as the boys on the docks whenever a ship arrived to harbor.

Once upon a time is gone.

It is time for the game to begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two notes.
> 
> 1 - Irina is a somewhat unreliable narrator.
> 
> 2 - The first step on her list was 'use people', and she fails that step about six hours into the Summit when she starts making friends by accident. Whoops. Now she actually wants them all to be happy, fuck.


	17. Alight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 17: Alight.
> 
> ft. Irina of Hise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Fire mention. Forreal. Also religion?**

"May I ask what the purpose of this is, my Lady?"

"Oh!" Irina starts, turning to stare at her butler with a palm flattened over her racing heart. "Jasper! You startled me, when did you come in?"

He raises a slim brow. "Just a minute ago. I had thought you would be abed by now, so I am intrigued by this set-up."

Irina glances back, looking at the display on her desk. "Yes, well. It's the Five Nights."

She feels a little bit silly now, for having brought them all to the summit for such a simple purpose. The five-branched light-holder is carved beautifully - an heirloom from her paternal grandmother's family, Dad had said. He has his own from his father, back at home, so Irina was permitted to take this one with her. The metal is shaped like boughs of a tree, wrapping around a central star whose four points mimic the cardinal directions on a map.

Jasper leans over her shoulder, examining the wells where Irina's poured small, precise measures of oil into each. "I wasn't aware you observed this practice, my Lady. The Five Nights is typically celebrated among a small sect in Wellin, those who follow a branched derivative of the primary religion."

"Yes, my father taught me."

"Ah." He watches, eyes curious and soft, as she carefully readies the wicks. "This is the first time I have served a delegate who observes this holiday. Do you mind if-"

"If you record it? Go ahead." She waves a hand idly, attention focused on ensuring that all wicks are oriented towards the east. "Do sit down, though. You'll drive me mad if you keep hovering like that, and it cannot be comfortable."

"It is alright, my Lady. I-"

"Jasper," This time, Irina turns to fix him with a stern glare, "I shall ban you from this room for the next five nights if you do not sit down and let yourself rest. If nothing else, consider it a motion of respect for this holiday, which honors the light we have been given and allows the world to begin laying back to sleep." A firm gesture towards the chair, and he takes the seat with what looks like the faintest hint of an amused smile.

Really! No-one else is around to see, and it's hardly like she's going to think less of him for sitting in a chair.

He gestures to the drawer where she keeps her parchments and inks, asking, "May I-"

"My goodness, Jasper, you needn't ask!"

This time, he actually chuckles as he pulls out a clean sheet of paper and the well of deep blue ink Irina likes to use for her letters. Deep blue is a wonderful color, really. And it will look lovely in the flickers.

"When I was younger, I used to have terrible trouble with the flames." She tells him softly, taking a still from the thin jar and crossing the room to dip it into the fireplace. "An unfortunate consequence of being caught in a fire for so long. For years, I had to ask others to help me with the lighting, because just being too close to the flames gave me ghost pains."

Jasper pauses his writing, and Irina can see the fire alight in his eyes, reflections flickering as she carries the still gently in her right hand - it's not to custom, but her left is simply unsuited for such delicate tasks.

"You never have told me about that, my Lady."

She sighs, dipping to light the first well. Nothing says she has to say the old words aloud, so she recites them in her mind as she responds. "Please, Jasper, use my name. It's hardly going to bite you." After a moment's thought, she decides it's better to cut off his response before he can begin, so she continues, "It was a little after my tenth birthday, I believe. We were docked in a small port town in Corval, and - it was such a horribly hot summer, and some parts of Corval can grow awfully dry."

"Your ship?"

"No." Moving onto the second well, drawing the prayer into mind, Irina pauses to gather her words. "There was a schoolhouse. It was just beside the town smithy, and when a spark fell onto the grass - everything went up in flames, faster than we could have ever expected. Callum, our first mate, helped organize a brigade to manage it, but-" She bites her lip, watching the second well catch flame, "-most of the children were outside, but it's usual for the youngest to nap after their midday meal. There were thirteen of them trapped inside, and the entrances had collapsed so none of the adults could fit."

Comprehension dawns in Jasper's eyes, and his gaze falls to the painful scars that still mark her skin. "But you could. My La- Irina-"

"They were so terrified." The third well lights, a symbol of the height of the year, and this time Irina douses the still to clasp her hands together in a proper prayer. "And no-one else was doing anything. So I did. I grew up on a ship, I was strong, I could carry them out on my own. It only took me seven trips."

She relights the still from the third well, moving the flame on to the fourth, and Jasper's hand rests light on the back of her left wrist. "You ran into a burning building seven times?"

"Well, I don't know if I ran, not after the third." For the fourth well, give your blessings to the sun for providing light, give it your blessing to lay at rest. "But yes. I was much braver in my youth than I am today, I'm afraid."

His touch is so, so gentle. "My- Irina, you are yet one of the bravest individuals I know."

Focus. Focus on the words, the fifth well. Give thanks to humanity, light a fire to carry them through the dark months that will soon come. Irina's nerves are alight where Jasper's hand brushes her skin, his fingers cool against the long-faded fever heat of painful memories.

"I wish I could live up to even half of what you think of me, Jasper."

He turns his head, looking deep into the firelights as Irina blows out the still for the second time. They paint his eyes all colors of the sunset. Irina wonders if he knows what she prays for during the Five Nights. If he knows that somewhere, deep in the back of her mind, his name appeared.

"You already have."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I create a fake holiday that's half-inspired by Hanukkah and also takes places over the summer solstice? Yes.
> 
> I've decided recently that Irina was probably raised Jewish in her modern AUs. Whether or not she practices the religion at all (she doesn't believe in a god, which as far as I can tell is not necessarily a dealbreaker?), remains to be seen.


	18. Branch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 18: Branch.
> 
> ft. Kite of Corval.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **No content warnings for this chapter.**
> 
> **Unless you need a warning for like... characters having their pronouns respected.**

They face a choice, here.

It seems so unfair, to chose between people as though they're just - pastries on a tray, picking and choosing which flavor you like best. Kite's never enjoyed ranking their opinions of others, even though they've always had them, and this is no better.

And worse, it's not just a matter of practicality, but emotion as well. They really do genuinely like Clarmont, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes - he's kind and gracious and such a delight to talk to, Kite thinks they'd never tire of conversation. They want to meet the dog he speaks of with such warmth, see the land he holds so dear.

They know, if they told him of the plight which drove them to seek out such drastic measures as the Summit, he would understand. Would offer his help, however much possible, to keep them and their mother safe. He's that kind of person - the sort of man who simply cannot watch suffering and do nothing.

He's so, so very good, and Kite fears they would only be using him. Taking advantage of his kindness, and goodness.

And if Kite is being truly, truly honest - his protection would not give them the sanctuary they truly, deeply need. Clarmont's cause is noble and Kite supports him in it, but they cannot become dedicated to such a thing. Not after so long trying to escape such political games. Running themself and their mother back into the heart of the very thing they were fleeing would be little more than a cruel joke.

It feels callous to say that this is what draws them to Lyon, but they cannot deny that it is a factor in their interest. Because Lyon, like Clarmont, is kind. Like Clarmont, is someone Kite could speak to for hours into days without fail. He has grace only in title, and is not the noble soul that Clarmont is - but that is okay, because he has no need to be.

Lyon is not kind in the manner of eyes swelling with sympathy and sincere declarations, but in the way of awkward concessions and small, unpracticed smiles. His kindness is asking them more about their gender, how it curls under their skin, than anyone has ever cared to - is offering academic texts that give them more words than ever before, is using no forms of address but those which they've asked for without even a hint of hesitation. His kindness waits for them to speak, and then meets them at their word.

And he is honest, painfully so. Kite had never imagined someone could speak so plainly, even when it is not done in comfort. What a strange and beautiful thing that is, honesty!

They want, with a deep ache, to find a life where they can be so free.

There is no righteous cause to be fought at Lyon's side - nothing but the desire to be left at peace, with those pursuits which bring joy. There is no revolution to fight, no expectations of succession or heirs or an honorable name to uphold. Only a home that has long sat empty and alone, needing nothing but hearts to fill it with warmth.

How in the world can they say no to that?

Even if they hadn't needed to protect their mother, even if they truly had come to the Summit looking for nothing but love - Kite knows, knows in their bones, that they would have always wanted to make this choice.

The path branches here, and they set their feet firmly on that which leads to freedom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I almost put Kite on Clarmont's path. Partially because they did really like him, and partially because I also like him. But Lyon won out, and the more I get to know about Kite and their situation and their motivations, the more I understand why that was.


	19. Facade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 19: Facade.
> 
> ft. Irina of Hise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **No content warnings for this chapter.**

"Oh, Jasper, is it so late already?"

Her butler blinks in the doorway, expression as porcelain and tranquil as ever, before stepping on light feet into the empty ballroom. A fresh towel is draped over his shoulder, and he offers it without asking.

Irina takes the offering, pressing her face to the plush fabric before winding it around the back of her neck. "I'm sorry, I must look an awful mess - it's just, Lady Vienna is- sorry, the character. She's quite a bit more proper than I am, and excessively poised - I thought if I practiced dancing, I might be able to embody her more effectively." She glances down at her feet, noting ruefully that her old dance slippers really are starting to wear out.

Jasper hums noncommittally, looking around the room. "If it is dance you wish to further proficiency in, I may be able to assist, my Lady."

"Jasper, please, how many times must I ask you to use my given name?"

"Would you like me to help you?" He deftly avoids the chastening, gaze no more forthcoming as he looks down to meet her eyes. "It is not especially late, yet. If you would like to practice more, there is enough time."

Goodness, but it would be nice to tell a little bit more of what he's thinking!

A sigh escapes Irina, and she pulls the towel away and rolls her shoulders back, wincing as a few tense muscles protest the motion. "Alright, that would be wonderful. Please forgive me if I step on your feet - I'm afraid that while my rhythm is decent, I've absolutely no memory for footwork."

The faintest hint of a smile tugs at his lips, and he replaces the towel over his shoulder before offering a hand. "I'm certain I've had worse partners, my Lady."

Still, as he sweeps her into a steady waltz, Irina has the sinking feeling she's only going to disappoint. She's avoided asking him for advice on dancing for a reason, these past few weeks. Jasper always moves with some innate sort of grace, and Irina knows just like she knows her own scarred hand that she's never had that type of skill. Oh, she's plenty graceful, but not in the sorts of things a lady should be - she's got a seaman's legs, strong and capable and well-balanced. She wasn't made for these elegant, dainty things.

Despite the fact that he seems to have close to a foot of height on her, and likely twice her bodymass (well, maybe not twice now that she's gained a little weight back, but still), Jasper moves with a lightness that Irina despairs of every achieving. His lead is firm and steady, half-gliding across the floor as she does her best to match the pace.

She wishes she could understand what's going through his mind as he sends her out into a spin before pulling her back, poised and calm with a facade like a painting. What is he thinking about, as he leads her into a complicated step pattern that has her narrowly avoid tripping over her own feet. It's a sore relief that she doesn't send them both to the floor, because Irina's not quite sure what she'd do if they fell on each other. In this isolated room. When no-one else is around, as the isle slowly drifts off to sleep.

Goodness, it's a lucky thing she's never been one to flush. While she might not be the type to indulge in such sorts of fantasies, it's still amusing to imagine such a scenario - something straight out of those scandalous novellas from Corval, perhaps.

What would Jasper think, if such a thing happened? Certainly, he'd react with all his usual poise and posture, she can't picture anything but - a polite apology and quick inspection to make sure she was alright, before returning to business or disappearing off to some other task. He does put such effort into maintaining his business face, there's no possibility he'd let it slip for something so silly.

(Irina's absolutely not disappointed. Under no circumstances would she wish to see her unflappable butler become just a little bit flapped. How preposterous!)

In the end, the impromptu lesson passes rather uneventfully - Irina manages to step on nothing but the floor, even if she doesn't always use the correct foot, and Jasper speaks up periodically to correct her posture or timing. He's a good teacher, if even more mind-bendingly thorough than her childhood instructors, and Irina does feel as though she's learned better how to keep her chin up while her brain is connected directly to her feet. So to speak.

Her legs feel rather a bit like jelly, and for once when she thinks 'I want to die', it's purely in the respect of 'great crested waves, I am so tired I could drop, let me rest' without any of her usual despair. A delightfully novel sensation, really.

Unfortunately, said jelly-legs don't quite hold up once the practice has ended, and Irina manages to get about halfway to the door before they falter beneath her.

"Oh, for-" She squeezes her eyes shut, preparing for some sort of unpleasant impact with the ground. Thanks to her sea-legs, she at least knows how to fall on a hard surface without breaking her wrist - the trick is to buckle from the knees and work up, rather than trying to catch oneself with a fragile hand or elbow. Still, it is rather a surprise when the ground never arrives, and Irina grunts as she impacts something distinctly more warm and alive.

"Are you alright?"

Well, it isn't exactly a pulp novella compromising position, but Jasper's still blinking down at her in concern, and Irina realizes a little belatedly that she's managed to all but fall into his arms. He'd been a few paces ahead of her, and in covering the distance somehow ended up on one knee, an arm supporting her back and the other at her shoulder.

This is just delightful. "I'm fine, Jasper. Simply out of practice, is all. Give me a few moments and I'll be quite alright."

He nods. "I see."

Irina stares up at him, waiting, because he hasn't made any motion to let her down or stand up. Instead, he simply remains there, holding her and meeting her eyes with a calm expression that slowly shifts into puzzlement. His touch is warm against her back, through the light linen of her practice clothes. It's utterly unfair, how he still doesn't have a hair out of place.

"Lady Irina? Is something the matter?"

She blinks slowly, absently wetting her lips. "I... Jasper, while this is very comfortable, I do think I ought to lay in my bed, rather than..." It seems too embarrassing to say aloud, so she settles for attempting to express her thoughts through gestures. Which turns out to be a much worse idea, as her hand's path is obstructed by the presence of his body and she ends up nearly smacking him in the face.

It would have been quite enough if she did, but Irina's instincts are just a shred to good for such a mistake. As it is, she winds up with a hand resting gently against the side of Jasper's cheek, one motion away from an outright caress. His skin is outrageously smooth - Irina knows more than one man who would die for whatever Jasper apparently uses to shave.

His eyes flicker wide for the briefest of moments, and pulls her back to her feet quickly. "My sincerest apologies, my Lady. I- may have been a bit distracted."

Irina offers back a smile, testing her legs and finding them mostly recovered. "Oh, don't worry about it, Jasper. I'm quite grateful you saved me from meeting the floor in such an undignified manner."

"Of course."

He doesn't quite look at her for the rest of the walk back to her quarters, but Irina's quite alright with that. After all, she has a precious memory now to savor - the seconds before Jasper pulled away, when she could feel his skin warm beneath her hand and see the barest tint of a flush grace his cheeks. The facade hadn't quite broken - not the way she's seen it do, a few brief and stunning times - but it was still something.

For as much as it's worth, Irina will treasure these moments.

(And maybe practice dancing a little more.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Irina and Jasper are allowed to be cute too sometimes, as a treat!
> 
> This man deserves to be flustered!


	20. Astral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 20: Astral.
> 
> ft. Jasper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Suicide mention, character death.**

The letter arrives two months and thirteen days after the last ships depart, written in a hand both clearly recognizable and utterly unexpected. Watermarks mar the paper, though the delivery captain assures him that they are not due to the voyage. Perhaps it is solely due to the writer's informal nature. Perhaps that is all.

Jasper thanks the man politely and retires to his quarters, wondering in circles about what could have possibly pressed Hamin of Hise to write him. They'd hardly gotten along during the man's time as a Delegate - indeed, had butted heads more than once, even with Irina acting as a powerful force of mediation between them - and Jasper can't imagine any reason the pirate captain would decide to take up correspondence. He prepares himself a cup of tea and, as the liquid steeps, carefully eases open the folds of the letter. Catches the folded parchment nestled inside, tucks it into a pocket with little thought. Reads the letter once, then twice, and then a third time.

His tea grows cold on the desk beside the window. Jasper reads the letter a fourth time.

A fifth.

As the sun begins to set outside, the words start to waver and blur before his eyes, and he removes himself out to the gardens where there will be peace. Once outside, he finds his feet leading him down familiar paths that ring with all of the wrong memories. Here by the docks, where she readied ships to sail and watched the sea with such a wistful gaze. Here by the gardens, where she liked to wander with friends. Here, the cliffside where she nearly died (nearly left him too soon, all too soon), there the thicket where she once walked barefoot on the grass and described to him the constellations from her home.

Told him how no matter where she went, the stars would always guide her home. And no matter where he was, he could find her by following them.

_Hey, Jasper._

_Look, I don't know how to say this._

Eventually, he finds himself slumping against the old oak tree, tall and steady and everything he isn't just now. Pinks and golds fade to a deep, clear blue as night begins to take over the sky, pinpricks of light glittering so far up in the heavens. Jasper stares up at them through the branches, and breathes, and tries to clear his mind.

_I really thought things were going pretty well. ~~We~~ She got Blackthorn back, the whole deal. _

_They were all so happy, I don't know what happened._

The air catches in his throat, a hiccup, a suspicious damp prickle in the corners of his eyes.

_Maybe it just wasn't enough._

_We found her body Fireday morning, on the rocks. ~~I couldn't~~ ~~I wasn't~~ ~~Why did she~~_

One tear escapes, slow and sharp, a searing line of heat along his cheek that burns against the cool air. Another hiccup, a spasming of the lungs and diaphragm, half a sob that doesn't quite make its way out.

_There was a note, so Dad's ruled it as a suicide, not murder._

_~~Did you know she~~ ~~I wish~~ Part of the note was addressed to you, so. ~~You should have~~ Read it for yourself._

_We're giving her a sea burial. Old northern style. I'm letting everyone else know too._

Old northern style - an heritage derived from the intermingling of Skaldic and Hisean cultural customs. A body, wrapped in shrouds and mementos, sent to sea in a wooden vessel set alight. Cremation and a return to the depths, all in one tidy package. Can he smell the ash on the wind, or is that just the wild hallucination of a desperate mind?

_Don't blame yourself. ~~I wish I could~~ You know how Glitter was - put her mind to something, no wind in the world could blow her down._

_~~Why does this always~~ ~~Why do I always~~_

_I know you're not a big fan of me, but I can keep in touch if you need someone to talk to._

_You meant a lot to her. Don't waste that._

_-Hamin of Hise_

With shaking hands, Jasper pulls the parchment from his pocket, fingers trembling across the dark stains in the fibers. Reads the black letters, straightforward and spiky and so unlike the graceful calligraphy she'd been forced to use while at the Summit. Why is it, he is only allowed this part of her now? Is it meant as some cruel consolation, the world stealing away the sun and offering a dim, reflected light in its place? Her handwriting looks like her, how she'd truly been without all of the facades and masquerades of high society to hide her away.

Silver ink decorates the paper beneath her words (her final words to him, all too soon), and in the span of a heartbeat their shapes become familiar. The flashes and lines sear themselves into his mind, bright as day even behind closed eyes, and Jasper feels his knees give out beneath him. He presses a hand over his mouth, muffling the sobs that force their way out from his heart.

Overhead, the sky is clear and crisp, stars bright against the darkness. He can still hear her voice, tracing paths between them.

_"That one there is Astralis - oh, don't laugh! Yes, I know that just means 'star'! It's because that's the one star that matters - as long as we follow Astralis, it will guide us home."_

She'd laughed, then, when he explained that perhaps such a belief was built more upon superstition than science.

_"Maybe you're right. But you know, I've never gotten lost when I can see that star."_

In a moment of such genuine joy and delight, her face had lit up like the very stars she’d so praised. Bathed by the light of the moon, she’d looked more like a fleeting thought than a girl of flesh and blood, something ethereal and wondrous. Jasper would have let her guide him anywhere

Clutched tight to his heart, the parchment bends but does not fold, his fingers smoothing back the edges as he weeps. The night around him is quiet and empty.

If Kade were here, he might make some biting comment about the inevitable outcomes of letting foreigners into their home, how really - isn't this what Jasper has earned, for giving his heart away to an outsider? The Matchmaker would look at him and shake her head, somewhere in the realm between disapproval and remorse. Sayra would sigh, Ria would cry. He understands, now, the discolored blotches marring Hamin's letter. Tears stain much the same as salt water.

If he were to hold up the parchment, Jasper could match Irina's drawing to the stars above. Lines of silver map the constellations, so familiar and yet so strange. One stands brighter than the rest.

Did that star lead her home once more? Did it lead her to a place of happiness, a place of peace?

(Why couldn't it have shown her that such a place was already right in front of her, with everyone who loved her so dearly? With him? Why did it have to be that even they couldn't bring her what she so desperately desired?

Why did it lead her somewhere he cannot follow?)

_Jasper,_

_This will be my last letter to you, so there's no need for dishonesty._

_I want you to know that this isn't your fault. It's not anyone's. You did your best for me, and I know this is a horrible way to repay all of that time._

_I hope you can forgive me._

_Jasper, I loved you more than I think I have ever loved anything. You appeared before me at a dark point, and made the Summit I had gone to on a whim into the most beloved experience of my life. I wish that time could have lasted forever._

_I'm sorry that it's ending this way._

_Where that brief happiness once filled me, it has now left a hole inside that I can't heal or hide. I feel like I'm barely a shadow of myself without the friends and family I discovered on the Isle._

_There is no way to mend this sort of emptiness. I cannot ask more of you and everyone than I already have._

_Jasper, love, I am going to the stars. So that now, wherever you are and wherever you go, I will be with you in the sky, and I will guide you home. I will be with you, always._

_Goodbye._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is... I suppose, the 'Bad End' for Irina. Not even remotely canon, of course. What can I say, I enjoy making characters sad. Bittersweet is the name of my game.

**Author's Note:**

> In these trying times of global pandemic & social distancing/quarantine, fyeah7kpp on tumblr is providing brief creative salvation in a sweet, laid-back prompt fill for the next month! And naturally I, being incredibly burnt out from one of my worst school terms (mental health-wise), am absolutely going to write something as many days as I can to relax and unwind. :3
> 
> I'm going to try to keep these focused more on character than on romance or plot. We'll see how that goes.


End file.
